usually returned a saner and healthier man than he went away.  When the absences were longer, they went in search of him, and could usually prevail on him to return home with them.  But this last absence had been much longer than usual before they found him.  He was as cunning and artful as a fugitive from justice in concealing his haunt.  At last he was discovered in the old garret store-room over the Brick Row.  The marvel was that he had not died of cold there.  He was not far from it, however; for he was so ill that at times he was delirious.  He lay curled up in the old stack of comforters in the corner, with only a jug of water and some crumbs of bread by his side, when they found him.  He had been so ill when he last crawled up the stairs that he had forgotten to take the key out of the keyhole, but left it on the outside, and by that they found him.  At the bare suggestion of his going home, he became so furious that it seemed unsafe to urge it.  His wife and eldest son had stayed there with him now for two days; but he had grown steadily worse, and it was plain that he must die unless he could be properly cared for.

“At last I thought of you,” said the poor woman.  “He’s always said so much about you; and once, when I was riding with him, he pointed you out to me on the street, and said he, ‘That’s the very nicest girl in America.’  And he told me about his giving you the clock; and I never knew him give any thing away before in his whole life.  Not but what he has always been very good to me, in his way.  He’d never give me a cent o’ money; but he’d always pay bills,—­that is, that was any way reasonable.  But I said to ’Siah this morning, ’If there’s anybody on earth can coax your father to let us take him home, it’s that Mrs. Philbrick; and I’m going to find her.’  ’Siah didn’t want me to.  The boys are so ashamed about it; but I don’t see any shame in it.  It’s just a kind of queer way Mr. Wheeler’s always had; and everybody’s got something queer about ’em, first or last; and this way of Mr. Wheeler’s of going off don’t hurt anybody but himself.  I got used to ’t long ago.  Now, won’t you come, and try and see if you can’t persuade him?  It won’t do any harm to try.”

“Why, yes, indeed, Mrs. Wheeler, I’ll come; but I don’t believe I can do any thing,” said Mercy, much touched by the appeal to her.  “I have wondered very much what had become of Mr. Wheeler.  I had not seen him for a long time.”

When they went into the garret, the old man was half-lying, half-sitting, propped on his left elbow.  In his right hand he held his cane, with which he continually tapped the floor, as he poured out a volley of angry reproaches to his son “’Siah,” a young man of eighteen or twenty years old, who sat on a roll of leather at a safe distance from his father’s lair.  As the door opened, and he saw Mercy entering with his wife, the old man’s face underwent the most extraordinary change.  Surprise, shame, perplexity, bravado,—­all struggled together there.